


Propriety

by sins_not_tragedies



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Begging, Bondage, Corvo Has Long Hair, Dom/sub, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, Hair-pulling, Heresy, Humiliation, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Dishonored (Video Game), Praise Kink, Pre-Dishonored 2 (Video Game), Punishment, Shame, Tentacles, The Void, Verbal Abuse, Voyeurism, Whipping, Why Did I Write This?, Worship, ambiguous chaos, finally get to use that tag, kind of?, there's a surprising amount of dialogue in this considering it's a pwp, void as lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23256865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sins_not_tragedies/pseuds/sins_not_tragedies
Summary: Corvo wakes up in the Void.
Relationships: Corvo Attano/The Outsider (Dishonored)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 157





	Propriety

**Author's Note:**

> this functions under the assumption that everyone is like, 150% hornier than they are in canon.
> 
> i don't have a justification for this.

Corvo feels the Void before he sees it; the bizarre shift in gravity, the chill nipping his insides, the unnatural stillness. He shakes his head, trying to get his bearings, blinks his eyes a few times to adjust to the dim lighting. He's in a room, lit only by low-burning purple lanterns, decorated by familiar velvet fabrics so common to shrines. The ground is hard beneath his knees — his knees? Corvo frowns. He's on his knees now, no longer laying on a bed. He makes to stand and finds he's chained up — wrists shackled, pulled out to either side, connecting to some unseen spots on the ceiling. Corvo tries to pull free of the shackles when a final realization hits him; his body is bare, save the shrine fabric draped around his waist.

"Corvo."

He knows the voice well, the way it fills up his ears and head like liquid ice. Corvo lifts his head to look at him.

"It's been awhile, hasn't it?" The Outsider continues. He's perched on a shrine, amongst shards of driftwood and coils of barbed wire. He's unreadable, simply observing Corvo from his short distance away.

Corvo doesn't respond. He doesn't need to.

"How does it feel to have everything so nicely back in place? Emily on the throne, you at her side, Havelock and the others in shallow graves...Is it comforting to finally have things in order?" The Outsider's pale skin seems to glow softly in the lantern light. He's youthful, though Corvo's given up trying to pin an age on him — anywhere between eighteen and eight thousand.

The Outsider stands up from the shrine, his boots actually touching the ground.

"Or does something still feel wrong? Unfinished?" he continues, pacing now, hands clasped behind his back, "Unresolved?"

His words are prying, as always. But there's a different lilt to them this time, something darker, almost mischievous. The Outsider pauses for a moment, staring at — through — Corvo. The black eyes sends a small shiver up Corvo's body, leaving the chains rattling.

"Silent as ever," the Outsider comments, approaching him. "Why is that, I wonder?"

Discomfort grows in him, not just at the Outsider's unusual tone, but at the feeling it evokes in the pit of his stomach. Corvo tries to transverse away, out of the shackles, but the spell fails. It fizzles, burning, on the back of his hand. The sensation travels up his arm and into his skull, erupting into a dull pain behind his eyes. The pain subsides as blood trickles from his nose, warm and slick.

"That won't work here, dear Corvo," the Outsider chides, the slightest hint of amusement in his voice. He steps closer to Corvo, close enough to touch. He's never gotten this _close_ before.

Corvo's heart thuds in his chest and head. "Let me go," he demands, struggling against the chains. His voice comes out gravelly, deep, and thin. Blood from his nose drips into his mouth, and he tastes metal.

Something akin to surprise passes over the Outsider's face, followed by a kind of smug satisfaction that reminds Corvo why he's never spoken in the Void before now.

"He speaks," the Outsider says. There's a teasing in his tone that twists Corvo's guts.

As Corvo scowls, the shadows around them come alive; they manifest into long, dark tendrils, snaking up from around him and the Outsider.

The Outsider leans forward slightly, just enough for Corvo to feel crowded. The Void tendrils creep under the shrine fabric and over Corvo's skin, gentle and prying. Corvo wishes the sensation wasn't so pleasant; wishes that it wasn't sending him into small shivering fits.

"Is this how you treat all your Marked?" Corvo asks through gritted teeth, peering from behind his curtains of dark hair. "Like playthings?"

"Only the ones that want it," the Outsider replies, brushing hair out of Corvo's face. "Only the ones I like."

The comment drips heat down Corvo's spine. The attention strikes something deep and primal in him, iron against flint, lighting a spark.

The darkness surges. It curls around him, slipping between his thighs and crawling up his torso, and it feels _good_. His body responds, to his chagrin, and his back arches into the strokes.

"I-I don't want this," Corvo insists, though the flush rising in his face makes for a poor case.

The Outsider reaches a hand forward. "You forget I see your dreams, my dear. I know what you hide from others, and what you try to hide from yourself."

Corvo pulls back to dodge the touch, but it catches his jaw, drawing him forward. Corvo stiffens; the Outsider has never _touched_ him before. The contact sends ice through his veins, and turns the points of contact to static, like being brushed with stardust. The Outsider's cold fingers scritch at Corvo's stubble, as one might do to reward a hound, before releasing him, letting his head drop, breathing heavy. 

The Outsider steps away again, taking a moment to admire Corvo's indignity. A subtle smirk plays across his lips.

"How shameful for someone like you to want after a younger man," the Outsider says, returning to pacing.

Corvo wants to deny the allegation, but the words die in his throat as a tendril teases his inner thigh. 

The Outsider tips his head in amusement. "You're not the first to have such a desire for me, of course."

To Corvo's surprise, the Outsider walks past him, around him. His footsteps come to a stop directly behind Corvo before speaking again.

"But you're certainly the most _interesting_."

Icy fingers trace down his back, across what Corvo knows is a patchwork of scars — some from knives; some from hot irons; some from whips. Corvo stiffens. He struggles, trying to turn and keep the Outsider in his field of view, but a hand grips the long locks of his hair, harshly, holding him in place.

"I wonder what the people of Dunwall would think of you now," the Outsider begins, throwing Corvo's head down and forward with enough force to scatter the blood dripping from his nose across the stone ground. Corvo is left dizzied and compliant, something in him stirred and stubborn.

A moment passes in tense silence, Corvo acutely aware of his position, and the Outsider biding his time, building anticipation. 

The first crack of the whip is a warning, barely nicking Corvo's shoulder blade, but it's enough that he snaps his head forward in shock. His blood — frozen just moments ago — begins to _boil_.

"Their beloved Royal Protector," the Outsider continues, voice still even.

 _Crack._ The whip cuts, sharp and brutal and stinging. _Where did he get a whip?_

"Chained up,"

 _Crack._ Corvo forgot just how much lashes _burn._

"On his knees,"

 _Crack._ The third one bites, tearing skin. Corvo grits his teeth. Why isn't he _moving_?

"At my feet."

His chest heaves, heart fluttering, head a cacophony of contradictions. He can't tell which he more desperately wants: to wake up, or for the whip to strike him again.

"What do they think of you, I wonder?" the Outsider asks again, grabbing Corvo by the hair and yanking his head back and staring him down. "A murderer? A protector that can't protect?"

He draws the words out slowly, like unsheathing a sword. Corvo feels himself melting, nerves set aflame.

"Or do you like that? To know that you're feared?" 

Words form in Corvo's throat, barely of his own volition.

The Outsider continues, needling. "And what of Daud? Was that mercy, or are you also an assassin that can't kill?"

"What do you want?" Corvo manages through gritted teeth. His resolve cracks under the god's attention.

The Outsider smiles, chilling and mischievous. He traces his thumb along Corvo's bottom lip, in tandem with a tentacle snaking up his torso. "You're wonderfully unpredictable when you struggle. It's why you're so very entertaining." He strokes Corvo's jawline. "What do _you_ want, Corvo?"

The thumb parts his lips, and Corvo's mouth goes dry. He suppresses a shudder, face hot with shame. The cold fingers go on to circle the knot in his throat and follow the tensed tendons of his outstretched neck.

The Outsider pushes Corvo's head forward, releasing the grip on his hair. Corvo is dimly aware of the Outsider stepping around him, the tip of the whip trailing across his shoulders. It sends a heated rush to the pit of his stomach. He wants more.

"You have power," the Outsider says, delicately touching his brand, "both the power you've earned and the power I've gifted you." 

The Mark burns at the proximity, but it burns _wonderfully_.

"So what's left? What do you want?" the Outsider asks, and there's a frustration in his words that mirrors whatever is roiling in Corvo's gut.

One of the tentacles, previously occupied simply brushing his thighs, begins to prod into him with more purpose. The tendril is slick, gentle but deliberate, until Corvo is squirming in his restraints. He bites his bottom lip to keep quiet, but his stubborness is failing him. The intrusion is maddening.

The Outsider presses the heel of his boot between Corvo's legs, driving a gasp out of him. Black eyes watch him with interest.

Corvo can't help but take up a rhythm against the pressure, bitterly giving into his desires.

"You're blushing," the Outsider comments, teasing, pushing his heel harder against Corvo's cock. "Is this what you want?"

The tentacles slither and pry, exploring him more thoroughly. What's left of his resolve falls to pieces.

Red-faced and sweating, Corvo confesses.  
"Punish me," he stammers.

The Outsider halts. The shadows withdraw, if only slightly.

"I-I want to be punished," Corvo repeats, trying not to give too visibly at the loss of stimulation.

"Is that all?" the Outsider coos as a tendril probes deeper into Corvo.

Lightning arcs up his spine.  
"And _praised_ ," he begs, the words wrung out of him like water from a damp rag.

The Outsider actually _laughs_. It's a dark, unsettling chuckle, unfamiliar and grating — something old and rarely used.

Beneath the layers of humiliation, something akin to an obsessive pride wells in Corvo's stomach. To know that he's _pleasing_ to the god is intoxicating.

"You never fail to surprise me. Whether it be with your in strength," the Outsider says, pulling his heel away, "or your weakness."

The heel catches the shrine fabric, tugging it down, revealing Corvo further. He shifts uncomfortably, struggling to stay covered by the cloth. The slope of his hips is fully visible now, as are the snaking vines of Void.

The Outsider grins, a sly cut across his ageless face. Is there pleasure in his black eyes? 

He draws the whip back with a flick, apparently surveying Corvo's front. Corvo can't bring himself to challenge the Outsider's gaze, so he stares down at his knees, vision obscured by his own disheveled hair.

The first strike hits directly across his torso. Pain and pleasure swell through him. Corvo bites his tongue as the shadows return to toying with him.

"You say you want punishment," the Outsider muses, cracking the whip again, this time briefer, off-center, "But for what?"

Corvo's muscles tense, prepared this time. It doesn't help the pain.

"Your failure to your Empress and the Empire?"

Another hit, a streak of raised red against the dusk of his skin.

"Or the murders? The wake of bodies you know you could have avoided?"

Corvo tastes blood from his lip and tongue. It's _wonderful_.

"What would be a good punishment for you? A strike across your chest for every life you've ended?"

The chains rattle with Corvo's shudders as the whip pelts him repeatedly, stinging and steady. The periodic crack of the whip is mesmerizing, a welcome alternative to his own staccato pulse.

He loses count of the blows, distracted by the soreness of friction-rawed skin, and the continued probing from the tendrils.

The Outsider only stops once Corvo is panting, sweat trickling down his neck and face. His torso is criss-crossed with fresh welts, red but not bleeding. 

Corvo attempts to calm his breathing, chancing a glance at his benefactor. The Outsider catches the look and holds it, amused and frustratingly calm. His slender ringed fingers are still wrapped loosely around the handle of the whip, and Corvo finds himself clenching his jaw.

"I think that's enough for now," the Outsider says as he releases the whip, and it vanishes into Void.

Corvo exhales shakily as the Outsider approaches him, too exhausted to shy away from his curious gaze. 

The Outsider places two fingers under Corvo's chin, tilting his head up until their eyes meet. Corvo has no choice but to stare back, hopelessly entranced. _Black_ isn't an apt description of the eyes he's peering into: the space between stars — something unfathomably deep and unknowable, boring into him like smoldering coals. He shivers, past the point of denying the wave of arousal.

"But you're so much more than a murderer," the Outsider says, head tilted. "For every person you've killed, you've spared another. The High Overseer, left alive. The Lord Regent, left alive. And Daud, left alive."

A tentacle quietly curls around Corvo's length, brushing him gently — even just the brief contact sends a thrill through him.

"It's hard to get my attention anymore. But from the moment I saw your life, your possibilities, Corvo," the Outsider leans in, even crouching slightly, "you absolutely _fascinated_ me."

There's that word. _Fascinate._ The praise turns Corvo weak, and he's thankful to be on his knees, because he knows he'd collapse if he were standing.

"You're special. A mystery. Not seeking things as trivial as coin or power. As willing to spare as spill blood. I don't give praise often, my dear, but you are my _favorite._ "

Before Corvo has time to process the dizzying flood of heat through his system, the Outsider presses their lips together, fingers tangling in his hair.

Corvo's lips part easily — more easily than he would like — for the Outsider's tongue, the wet-cold slide of it, numbing him with ardor. 

The kiss borders on obsessive, Corvo leaning into the strange embrace, giving himself up as the Outsider grips and pulls at his hair, lips like the galaxy's edge. He bites into Corvo's mouth, tugging his lip, tasting his blood.

The Outsider doesn't speak through the kiss, and there's no pulse in his touch or heaving in his chest, but with every push-pull and twist of the tongue, the message is clear: _You are mine_.

He kneels and leaves Corvo's mouth, kissing along his stubbled jaw and down the column of his throat, teeth catching skin. Corvo's breath hitches at every nip and suck at his neck, driven on by caresses from the void beneath his waist.

A tendril gives him a full, earnest stroke, enough to arch Corvo's back and nearly blind him with his own ache. The Outsider grips his shoulders to keep him still before sinking teeth into the tensed flesh of his shoulder.

Corvo writhes, brought nearly to finishing by the bite. The Outsider, practically straddling him now, pulls back to admire his flush. He cups Corvo's face in one hand, letting the other rest on his chest.

"Look at you, so easily broken," the Outsider murmurs, running a finger down Corvo's sternum. "Months of torture failed to do what I've accomplished in an evening."

Goosebumps blossom across Corvo's skin as the Outsider traces the musculature of his torso, careful of the wounds he'd just inflicted. He circles Corvo's navel before drifting lower, following the slope of his pelvis and the trail of coarse dark hair. 

"It's unbelievably satisfying," he says, spreading his palm to feel the tightness built up in Corvo's core, "to watch you fall to pieces."

Corvo trembles, relishing the approval, the sensation of it all. The Outsider slips his hand under the rich purple fabric, letting his fingers ghost up Corvo's length.

Corvo's hips roll despite him, his body begging for contact, desperation overwhelming his shame.

The Outsider gives another soft chuckle, withdrawing his hand and rising to his feet. Corvo strains against the restraints, chasing the touch.

The tentacles coax Corvo's thighs apart, probing into him again. With a few more languid strokes, Corvo is reduced to a shuddering wreck, just barely held back from the edge.

The Outsider watches his blissful agony pensively, head tilted, mouth slightly quirked into a smile. The silent approval is nearly as destructive as the physical touch.

"Let me _worship_ you," Corvo rasps. His head is foggy with an obsessive lust, free from his waking inhibitions. His eyes rake up and down the Outsider's form.

The strokes slow again, pulling him back from release.

"I hadn't taken you as one for worship," the Outsider says, almost mocking. "But how can I say no to a man on his knees?"

The Outsider reaches to the buckles of his jacket. He unclasps them methodically, patiently, not at all rushed by Corvo's quiet keening. Under the worn brown leather is a simple white shirt, rumpled and untucked.

Corvo _stares_ , wishing he could devour the view with his eyes, knowing that so few have had this opportunity — that he is _special_. 

He wriggles in frustration as the Outsider strips his shirt. He's pale to the point of nearly glowing, with no hint of blush. His form is slim, unassuming. Tantalizing. Corvo shakes with want.

The Outsider clasps his hands behind his back again, and steps forward, within arms reach.

"Now, which is worse?" the Outsider asks, "Me finishing _for_ you, or you finishing for _me_?"

The shadows fondle him, slicking his own wetness down his length, lewd and provocative. The restraints around Corvo's wrists fall loose, letting his arms drop to his sides. He realizes he's being offered a choice — to bring himself off while the Outsider watches, or let the god do it for him.

Instead, resisting his more basal urges, Corvo scrambles for purchase on the Outsider's bare torso — he wants so _badly_ to dig his nails into that porcelain flesh, leave a mark on it the way it has on him.

He's met with a stinging slap to the face, strong enough that it sends him reeling. 

"Hands to _yourself_ ," the Outsider hisses.

Corvo reaches to feel the swelling on his cheek, but a tendril snatches his wrists and draws them away, holding them behind his back. The vines creep across his chest, binding his torso in black ropes.

The Outsider grabs Corvo's chin unkindly, forcing their eyes to meet. Corvo knows he's a mess, blushing, sweating, and bruised. The stroking stops, once again robbing him of friction.

The Outsider's black eyes are not angry; they read as bemused and amused. 

He forces another kiss to Corvo's lips, teeth and tongue and ice and salt. When they break apart, Corvo falls forward, forehead pressed to the Outsider's stomach, sputtering for air.

Corvo catches his breath, barely. He presses his cheek to the cold flesh, hair sticking from sweat. A hand comes to rest on his head, just as the tentacles start a new rhythm on his fully exposed form.

Corvo nuzzles and kisses as much skin as he can reach. The Outsider responds with a low purr that resonates through Corvo's body. Encouragement. The tentacles work over him, inside and out, and Corvo is seconds away from his undoing, writhing against the Outsider's unyielding body.

The Outsider cards through his hair. "I could keep you like this forever. Tied up and panting. You're captivating."

Corvo is lost in the heat of it all, the heady touch and the taste of Void.

"My precious little crow," the Outsider croons.

It's enough. Corvo comes apart with a desperate, wordless slur, body convulsing, streaking white across the purple fabric. 

The Outsider lets him collapse. Corvo slumps over from exhaustion. He's left to lay there for a few moments, the god watching him, pleased by the performance.

Corvo wakes with a start, drenched in a cold sweat, a humming rune clutched to his chest. His limbs feel like lead; strips of skin across his back and front burn, raw. As the mental fog clears, the waking shame hits him — he needs to clean himself up, wash his clothes and sheets.

But under the shame is a dark, glowing satisfaction unlike anything he's every felt.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> i'm sorry


End file.
